Hello Friends,
It's been quite a week of endurance. For so many reasons, I was not quite able to post last week. But that's all in the past now. It's a new week and thus, it seems like a perfect time to get back into the ring, that is, if you all will take me back.
So last week, I ended on a bad-good note. I was in the middle of some nice epistolary story which practically nobody knew about. So, it’s only logical if I got on with the story and give it a beautiful finish.
But I would really appreciate it if you could look on the first part of the story [here](https://steemit.com/story/@funmiakinpelu/if) before going on to read this:
***
Open wallpaper
Home had all the nuances of a spitting volcano. Going home, stepping on that cemented bed of stairways that led all the way to the huge parlour which reeked of urine smell, it was like walking right into the middle of an overflowing cesspool of magma. Mother's spiteful tongue and Father's vengeful drunkenness and produced that kind of chain reaction.
Kelechi, you dreaded home just as much as I did. But the Road always led home and whenever home approached, we shook like fishes swept to the shore just as we felt the faces of the neighbours around for a tell-tale sign of doom. Most times, they didn't like the sight of us, so seeing us walk into the wide compound emitted smirks and hisses from them. Especially you, Kelechi, you suffered the brunt of their wicked stares. They couldn't seem to come to term with the way you looked, burnt, skewed on all contours and edges as if seared on the face by a hot iron. It wasn't any use explaining to them that you only suffered from a condition, not a plague.
However, when our parents were fighting, they seemed to look at you more, they seemed to pity you or appear pathetic towards your really sorry situation. And yes, they also whispered. They talked about our Dad's poverty and Mom’s cynicism. They talked about us. They could not seem to get enough of the family who had just enough bad luck on their plates to feed a whole nation.
This telltale sign, it was how we knew when and when not to come in. And then, when we knew a brawl was underway, we did not pass through the front door, we didn't shuffle our legs on the Welcome Mat or scamper to the kitchen to scavenge whatever was left. When they were fighting, we simply sneaked through the back door, into our room. And then, we would work our mouths on the groundnut we normally buy when coming from school. I told jokes about my school, about the big boys who got beaten in public, of the girls who were caught writing love letters to boys. Because their noises haunted you like bitter nightmares, I did just about anything to make you feel happy, to help you escape.
But there were times when we couldn't escape it all; those times when they turned their attention to you. Mom would drag your name into her messy arguments while Father would smear it all over her own face,
“IK, so you are telling me that you will soon leave for me, abi? “
“Yes, I will go for you and your razor blade mouth.”
Mother would usually gawk at this point.
“See this useless man ooo, so you will leave your wife and your two children to go and meet Asewo. You are shameless “
This was Father's time to shine.
“Which wife are you talking about. I am looking, about the fat, overweight hen that is standing in front of me looking like a pig? If that's the wife you are talking about, then you are mad, Nneka. Mad, mad, mad.”
By this time, mother's eyes would be welling with tears.
“IK, Biko nu, you can't leave ooo. At least if you will not think of me, think of your children.”
Father's laughter at this point was usually sardonic and resounding.
“Children. Do I have children? God forbid that I call those things devouring my food children. Especially that nuisance of a boy called Kelechi. That deaf imbecile, spitting rubbish from his mouth cannot be my son. Or do you think I don't know? You went to go and collect one *mumu* child from outside and you are now calling it my own. And Nonso, I don't even know where you took that one from. Which son of mine will pass by his own father, his own father and not say *Nde wo*. No greeting at all, at all. Which son of mine will refuse to talk to anybody or come out of the room to play with real friends.”
Mother's tears would by now be scarring the floor. But Father would still go on, those tears seemed to gratify him.
“A swear, A swear on top my father's grave, if you call those bastards my children again, I will go out to the entire world and tell everyone what we cooked in the house that is making the whole house to burn.”
This was the point where Father usually walked away. He had won. Yet again.
Kelechi, you remember how Mother would howl and scream at us after this. She would shout us into doing everything, washing plates, cooking, fetching water from the tank outside, sweeping, stroking her back with sweet words. We always did everything after Father's bitter remonstration. You always tried to please her, you didn't like her breathing down our necks. But no matter what we did, she always found a way to pour Father's vent on us. Once, she blamed us for the downturn in her business. She owned a restaurant, **Kamzio**, but somehow, no one ever showed up and she turned it to a pastry shop, **Bountiful Pizza and Shawarma Joint**. Nothing has changed though. No one ever showed up.
I didn't care about Father's blind remarks or Mother's stolen agitations. What I just couldn't understand was why no one saw you for what you really were. No one could see past your slippery face, warped lips and withered fingers. They couldn't see the soul who had a life, who did the things normal people did like watching TV and cramming all the lines of the adverts he liked. They couldn't see the 16-year-old teenager who struggled with simple things like watching his favourite team, Barcelona, lose in a match. They couldn't see the brother who loved me like I was a favourite dream.
Kelechi, no one knew you. And this was what struck a match to my heart and set it ablaze. Sometimes, I felt I didn't know you too. I felt I sometimes underestimated your humanity. Like you with Maria, the beer parlour attendant who always had these weird lipsticks on. I didn't catch that happening. It just didn't occur to me that you were capable of being in love. With a girl. Yes, I saw the way you stared thoroughly at her like a Gloot and how everything you noticed on the road seemed to always weave themselves around her.
But nothing prepared me for those tears you shed facing the wall of our bedroom. You had drummed up the courage to go talk to her but at your very first words, she laughed at you and shamed you right in front of everyone. Your frail, tired heart couldn't take it. And you cried. For the first time, I felt something more for you. I wanted to love you more.
So I crawled up to where you curled up and tried to soothe you with my hands. This time, my hands didn't just clean your spittle or stroke your back. My hands moved in the wrong direction. They moved from your face to your lips and then your chest till it got to the hair flourishing on the shore of your penis. With every touch, my hands grew soft against yours. For the first time, I actually saw that your crotch was a snake, a long, colourful one that had gone limp from lack of use. Somehow, I knew you needed me to be happy. That day, Kelechi, I acted with a kiss. At first, it was a tame, hard brush against your lips. But soon enough, it became something more, a tender squeeze, a dispassionate sucking of your saliva and making it mine.
Kelechi, I didn't know what you did afterwards to make me groan or sweat profusely. But whatever it was, it was good. Because after that night, I never felt horny again or even stared at a girl with hunger burning in my eyes. I always knew where to come….
### If you feel this ended up on a really disappointing note, well, there is a third part to this. It comes tomorrow. And it should just about cover up for this. Thanks for reading this, I can't wait to see your comments. And up votes too. Till tomorrow, friends.
hiveblocks